


Not Anymore

by ThirteenSocks



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Langst, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Suicide, implied klance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 08:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14950982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirteenSocks/pseuds/ThirteenSocks
Summary: He can’t.So he won’t.And he won’t have to.





	Not Anymore

Lance sneaks off upstairs.

  
The last two steps on the landing squeak as the weight of his feet disturb them. He stills at the top, waiting a few precious seconds, so that the sound of his door closing is gentle. A quick rush to his bedroom would tip off his parents to his mood. Not that it would have consequence, not immediately, they wouldn’t check on him or send a text asking about him. It just meant that the next time they see him, usually dinner, he’ll be badgered after.

He takes a slow breath in as he shuts the door.

He’s not sure when the next time they’ll see him is. Or even that it’s certain.

He flops onto the bed, laying on his side, and clicks his phonescreen on. There are no messages, but he does have quite a few notifications from his blog.

It’s hard to be on there now, after his blow up with Keith.

Lance moves onto his stomach. His nose smashes into the mattress, but he holds position for a bit. The pain feels nice. It’s a distraction. He moves so that his chin holds his face up. Then decides to move so that his cheek presses against the bed. Neither of those are comfortable either. So he settles on his back, dragging the pillows up so he’s somewhat inclined. His leg bounces wildly, having been drawn up by the knee.

All he can think about is Keith. His friend.

It started out nicely.

Keith was passionate, beyond what he could control. He had an energy to him that was infectuous. It was almost nauseating.

Lance bares his teeth and smacks his forehead with his arm.

His jealousy, his low self confidence, self worth, was what did them- no, him, in.

As much as he wishes to pretend Keith had much stake in the argument that drove them away, he knows that it was his own toxicity that ended them. It makes his blood feel like a posion pumping in his veins. His own life force capable of nothing other than tainting at best, and destroying at worst.

He wanted to throw a fist into the mirror, but that would make noise.

He wanted to throw a fist to his own face, but that would make noise.

He wanted to cry, but that, too, would just make noise.

The sound of a notification goes off and he throws his phone as hard as he can into a pile of dirty clothes. The unwillingness to control his temper is not lost on him. He’d like to blame the adhd, but how much longer, and for what all else, is he going to blame on his head? Everyone could claim it’s just how their brain is. At what point does it become ok to crush the people you love just because you were born defective.

He rips himself away from the bed.

He paces.

Keith was, no- is such a wonderful guy. Talented. Hard working. Enduring.

And all Lance had done was tear him down. No matter if he meant to or not. He can never forget the look on Keith’s face when Lance said he couldn’t look at Keith’s art anymore. It made Lance... jealous. And he was done lashing out from jealousy, so he did the only thing he could think to do, to remove himself from the situations that he felt those feelings in. He’s not intelligent enough to know how to get the jealousy to go away, nor how to be ok with himself. Which adds just one other gripe he has against who he is. Keith had been so crushed. It was a rejection of his being.

So they fought and they ended their friendship.

Lance stops walking in front of his vanity desk. Strewn about its surface are various skin care products. What stops him, though, is the plastic, disposable razor. It’s fairly dull by now, but he can’t afford more for a little while longer, so he just rubs it against jeans, as he’d been taught, to sharpen it. He takes its blue, textured handle in hand.

It seems like an endless cycle for him.

He makes friends, he makes them so easy, too easy. But, eventually, his insecurities surface, and the other person ends up hurt.

Lance hates when people tell him he’s nice.

He continues his footsteps. There’s at least now one option, literally, in hand.

Recognizing his faults is not enough. That’s perhaps the biggest lie people tell. Knowing is not the same as doing. And as for doing, he has no idea what he should.

The razors falls next to his phone. He’s not exactly courageous.

It just feels to him like he’ll never get passed his mistakes. He keeps making the same ones and all it does is cause pain to others.

He spots his sleeping medication from the courner of his vision.

It’d be peaceful.

He reaches for the bottle and pops the cap open.

If there’s a Heaven, wouldn’t it be better to remove himself before he hurt more people?

He taps a few into his open palm.

If there’s nothing, well, life is short, and he’d meet it one day anyways.

He throws them back into his mouth and swallows. It’s just a few. He can always change his mind.

The phone beeps, the tone that is, decidedly, not Keith’s. Not that Keith would talk to him. Not that Lance wants him to. Lance did the damage, so he’ll face the the consequences.

He shakes out a few more, then pauses.

He just feels empty, he supposes. He doesn’t feel emotion anymore, nothing beyond anger and disappointment. He’s not good at anything, he’s ok at everything. There’s just nothing special to Lance McClain. And it kills him. It’s killing him. His own family is too busy with others, with their own lives. It hurts. He hurts.

He swallows a few more.

He’s not pretending they won’t miss him. He’s smart enough to know they will. But he’d rather they miss him than get twisted around by him.

Shakily, he deposits a few more into his hand. His vision is blurring, and his eyes are feeling heavy. It’s getting harder to breathe.

He can’t face being this way anymore.

He can’t.

He dumps the full bottle in his hand and grabs the glass of water he keeps full at the edge of his mirror.

He can’t do this anymore.

He’s a monster. A true, honest-to-god monster.

He throws back the rest of the pills.

He can’t.   
So he won’t.  
And won’t have to.

He closes his eyes.


End file.
